


See you again

by Obi1kenobyebye



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obi1kenobyebye/pseuds/Obi1kenobyebye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finally got his best friend back. So why is there something still worrying him? Keeping him up at night? If you take a closer look at the all so perfect scene, you might realise that there is something tremendously wrong.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	See you again

"Ah." I sighed, deeply satisfied with the day so far, as I let myself collapse onto my big armchair, standing in the middle of the living room, shielding the view to the kitchen, back at 221B. Finally sitting down again, after countless hours of running with hardly any breaks. I was breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling with every rustling breath I took. As a married man I had forgotten just how ludicrously fun, but also how utterly exhausting it was to chase after a fled murderer. However, I couldn't deny how good it felt to be back. Nothing could ever replace the feeling of adrenaline rushing into my head, causing me to stop thinking and start acting. It still amazed me how easily my feet fell back into routine, how I didn't have to concentrate a single bit for them to take me wherever I had to go. And even though Mary's and my house was all sorts of comfortable and cozy, I knew it would never be able to live up to this indescribable feeling of home flooding my body, sending sparks down my spine and shivers down my back, creating a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I returned here. Holmes and Watson, just us two against the rest of the world again, reunited. I embraced the wonderful feeling of comfort expanding from my chest to the very last tip of my toes, felt my body relaxing, my mind being at ease, and found myself slowly drifting off to sleep. In short? I felt at home.  
"Mrs Hudson?" I woke with a start. " Mrs Hudson, is there ANY tea left in the entirety of this goddamn flat?", I heard Sherlock call, right next to me, his deep baritone voice ringing in my ears. I slowly opened my eyes, trying to rid myself of the dizziness my hardly minute long nap had left me with, and saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen, which was as untidy and chaotic as it always was, pulling open about every cupboard we owned without closing them, in his desperate search for even the slightest trace of tea. His cheeks were still red form the hours of running out in the rainy, foggy cold, also know as London. "I'm still not your housekeeper, dear!", Mrs Hudson's voice thundered from above us. "But if there isn't any somewhere under the sink, I'm afraid we've probably run out." I could hear Sherlock rummaging through the cupboards under the sink, the only ones he hadn't searched yet of course. The silence was only interrupted by him murmuring "no" under his breath, approximately every five seconds. I scoffed, but I couldn't hide the wide grin spreading across my face.  
"What?" I jumped a little, I hadn't even realised he'd stopped much more than I had heard him entering the room again. "Nothing." He raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing a word I said. "I missed this." I missed staying up hours, not getting any sleep even though I had work the next day, just to crack a code. I missed the feeling of triumph after finally catching a criminal, who had always been one step ahead of us. I missed the thrill of excitement running through my veins every time we decided a bit of a puzzle. I missed London at night. I missed coming back to flat after a long, long day, falling asleep instantly, most of the time not even making it back to the bed. I missed knowing what hat something could happen and change my entire life every bloody second. I missed putting my life at risk, not caring what the consequences could be. But I also missed the quiet, the uneventful days when we didn't have a case to work on, staying at home watching crappy daytime TV, with my best friend telling me how everything they said and did on that stupid soap opera didn't make the slightest bit of sense and how incredibly flawed the plot was and how lazy and poorly written every episode seemed and me wanting to murder him because he wouldn't shut his mouth for longer than 30 seconds. I missed the all or nothing attitude you got after a frustrating case, when nothing seemed to get you away from where you were standing. I even missed Sherlock's mood swings and the way his gace lit up when I called him brilliant. I missed the worry I felt when anything went wrong and I missed the way I would risk everything for a single human being. I missed the good things and the bad things. Hell, I even missed Sherlock calling me an idiot. I missed the gratitude an sorrow. I even missed the pain. Because none of that could be as bad as living without Sherlock had been. Nothing.  
"I missed this. That's all. You don't get that much excitement in a marriage.", I added, which was true. He had that look in his eyes again, the one he always had when he didn't understand why someone was doing something. But although I was smiling , there was something bothering me. And Sherlock could sense that even though I myself couldn't tell what it was. I a,so couldn't suppress it. Suddenly the flat seemed a lot colder, almost freezing. I checked the thermostat and although it showed no change at all, I felt like ice crystals were forming informs of my face every time I breathed out sharply. My chest was thightening and I had difficulty breathing. All I wanted was fresh air. In the years we'd been together, Sherlock and I had learned to see what the other wanted without him actually saying something, which had come in quite handy. All I had to do was look him straight in the eyes. I used this method rather than actually telling him what was going on in my mind for two reasons. For one I didn't want Mrs Hudson, who had surprisingly good ears, to hear me voicing my concerns, but the other, far more important reason was that I didn't trust my brain to form the right words and neither did I trust my tongue to deliver the message without my voice breaking. After all, I still didn't know what exactly the problem was. Sherlock, however, immediately understood what I needed and acted the right way. "Care for a walk?"  
We sat down on a park bench, not that far from the flat, after telling Mrs Hudson we were going out to buy tea, which I don't think she believed us because Sherlock never goes to buy groceries. Somehow, this place looked awfully familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it why. The way the wind was rustling through the trees, the sound of church bells in the background, almost like a melody. It all seemed like I had been here before. As we sat there in silence, I finally had time to reflect and think about what had happened in this turbulent last month. How my best friend had miraculously returned form the dead after two painful years, which I tried so hard to forget, but we're still oh so vivid, of thinking I had lost him forever. And as far as I remembered, since he'd come back there had always been this thing bugging me. At the back of my mind mostly, but when the world fell asleep and everything grew silent, it would move, grow bigger, but it would never come close enough to grasp. Sitting there shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, not talking, but still connected, I came to realise what had been sitting in my head, waiting for the moment to come, where I couldn't ignore it anymore, which had been earlier today, when I was driven out of the flat. Inhaling deeply and scrambling up all the courage I could find, I finally said what my mind had already spoken.  
"I'm ready." There, I said it.  
"Pardon?", Sherlock responded, with a puzzled look on his face, a slightly amused smile playing around his lips.  
"I'm ready to know how you did it. How you jumped from that roof top and survived. How you tricked me into thinking it was you who hit that pavement. How you made me believe you were dead because I saw you and it was you. Why you waited two bloody years to come back when you knew what a mess I was. Even though you heard me speak at your grave, begging you to come back, to stop being dead. How could you do that to me, Sherlock?" The worlds were rushing out of my mind without me having any control about them. All the hurt and sadness and anger I had felt broke free in swall of words. I turned to look at him and for a moment he looked surprised. Then he shifted his gaze. I was desperate for answers, but he kept avoiding my eyes, his own fixed on the ground. You'd think there was something extremely fascinating and capturing there, if he hadn't had that blank expression on his face. If his body wasn't tense and his fists weren't clenched. Five, ten, maybe even fifteen minutes passed with neither of us saying a word, hardly moving apart from the continued rising and lowering of our chests, almost synchronised. I didn't dare say anything, afraid I might distract Sherlock from forming the perfect sentences in his head. I could see his mind at work and I knew he needed time, so I waited, anxiously, growing more and more nervous with every second that passed. Suddenly I had second thoughts. What if I didn't want to hear what was about to come? What if there was a reason Sherlock hadn't told me about the last two years? But still, I waited. Then, after what seemed like centuries, he started talking again.  
"I....", he tried, shopping immediately after realising his voice wouldn't support him. He inhaled deeply. I could see his cold breath escaping his mouth, lingering in the air for a few seconds before vanishing. He started again, with a pained look in his eyes, like he was reliving a bad dream, memory even. "I knew this would come. I tried keeping it from you the way I always do. I'm still trying to protect you, but I can't. You always get behind it. You're way too smart, John. Smarter than you, or anyone one else, realises. But it inevitably comes down to this, no matter how hard I try, no matter what I do. I can't do it, John! I can't stop it! I was never able to because I was never supposed to." The words were spilling out of his mouth, swinging with emotion and filled with hurt. His cheeks heated up and suddenly there was something else. Rage, hatred. "I hate it! I hate seeing you like this and I hate standing helplessly at the side line, just looking at you breaking yourself, without anything, ANYTHING I CAN DO!" He was standing now and shouting, getting louder with every syllable. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Why can't you let go and move on? Why can't you forget me and live a normal and happy life with Mary? Even after I left you, after I betrayed you, after i made you think I was dead, you stand loyal by my side. And why do you have to be so had dann clever?" He collapsed onto the bench and laughed shakily, without any joy in it. Almost like he'd forgotten I was there, like he wasn't talking to me, but to himself. This didn't make any sense. "What are you going on about, Sherlock? Keep what from me? Protect me from what?" Sherlock never told anyone they were clever, we were all idiots to him. So why did he keep telling me how smart I was? When I looked at him he seemed so broken, so vulnerable, so... human. I'd never seem him this way before and to be honest it was starting to freak me out. He was always so reserved, controlled. Seeing him this emotional was making me a bit uncomfortable, like I was watching him when he obviously didn't want to be seen. He took another shaky breath and placed his hands in front of his mouth. So close, but oh so far from the gesture he always made when he was thinking. But his knuckles were white and for the first time it almost looked like he was praying. Praying to a god he didn't even believe in, but at the same time it seemed like he was trying to shut himself up. He closed his eyes, now clearly trying to keep something in or let something out. It was like watching a fight between equally strong enemies and I don't think Sherlock knew who was going to win the fight any better than I did. He kept inhaling, tried starting a sentence, but the words wouldn't transform into sound, no matter how desperately he wanted it. Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant genius, the only consulting detective on this entire planet, couldn't get out a single word. Seeing him struggle felt so wrong, almost intimate, but a bad kind, like I was peeping through a window while he was changing. It was a side of him he would never CHOOSE to let anyone see, not even me. No, especially me, his one true friend, the only friend he ever had. He didn't want me to judge him, didn't want me to think less of him. Because he was so afraid of losing me. Suddenly, there was a change. The battle was won, one side was triumphant. And with his voice trembling like his his heart was breaking, like his body and mind alike told him otherwise, he spoke, his voice nothing more than a whisper.  
"I didn't, John. I didn't fake my death." And with the words escaping his , I could see him crumble before me. His shoulders sacked and he seemed to age rapidly before my eyes and with the words circulating in my head, I realised it was true. My best friend was dead. Just after I thought I had finally gotten him back, he was pulled from my life again, like I was Orpheus and turned to look behind me too soon, and my world was shattered once again, leaving me in a black hole even worse than the last time, even more painful. My head started spinning, spinning out of control. I couldn't see anything, everything seemed out of focus, I couldn't breathe and I realised that tears were filling my eyes, clouding my sight even more, but not yet falling down my cheeks. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to do something, anything, to change what I just heard, but I couldn't and now I understood what Sherlock had meant by standing at the side lines, seeing everything, but unable to do anything to help. And then I saw him. There were tears in Sherlock's eyes, running down his pale cheeks, running together at his chin, dropping onto his white shirt, creating little wet islands wherever they landed. His nose was crinkled, his face full of red spots, his whole body a grotesque mask of pain. And his hands, his hands were trembling as if electric shocks were sent through his body over and over again, but they were still pressed against his cracked lips, as if to muffle a scream.  
And he was fading away.  
Fading like an old memory, growing lighter and fainter with every second I continued to stare at him, my face twisted in horror. So many things going on in my brain. So many things I wanted to say. Had to say. My heart was racing as if it was trying to break out of my rib cage, sending pumps of pain to every single cell of my tormented body. Yet all I could say?  
"Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't, don't, don't. DON'T. DON'T!", I started screaming at the top of my lungs over and over again. Until my throat was so soare, I couldn't talk anymore. I didn't stop. Kept on whispering and forming the words, even though no sound was leaving my lips, repeating it like a mantra in my head. This couldn't be real. I couldn't lose him again. This wasn't FAIR!  
"I'm sorry, John. I should have stayed dead." He shifted his head to look at me. For a moment we locked eyes, I could feel his sorrow running through my veins and I was sure he could feel my denial and my indescribable hurt that this was happening sending pain throughout his entire body. I couldn't lose him, I'd rather die than relive the past two years without him. And gathering up every last bit of questionable strength I could find, staring straight into his almost vanished eyes, I croaked, no louder than the wind playing with the dead leaves infront of us:"Don't leave me again. Please." "I'm sorry, John." And with that, his voice still lingering in the air, he was gone, the only evidence that he was ever even there, the tear drops on the now empty park bench, becoming one with the rain that had started pouring down, making the delicate line between fiction and reality even thinner than it already was. Leaving me in a world I neither felt part of nor wanted to live in anymore. My head was hurting so badly, I thought it was going to burst. My cheeks felt hot and wet, I could feel a throbbing pain in my temples. I didn't realise I was lying on the ground until I felt the wet grass slipping between my fingers, felt it brush against my lips. Before I knew it my hands were pressed against my forehead, burying my face in my hands, trying to ignore the pain I felt where my heart should have been, although I doubted it was still there because all I felt was a gaping hole, absorbing every feeling of happiness I had ever known. I just wanted it to stop. My thoughts, the hurt, the world that was still beating like nothing happened. Everything. All I wanted was silence, I wanted to stop thinking, to stop remembering every vivid detail of my best friend fading out of existence. And then it hit me. Suddenly all the separate puzzle pieces inside my head began fitting together, building a memory I had tried so hard to forget I actually didn't realise where I was until now. I remembered one last terrible thing about the last two years. I knew this place so well because I had been here countless, way too may times. And even though I knew exactly what was waiting for me, even though I already had a clear picture of it dancing before my eyes, I still lifted my head, afraid of the consequences, but far too weak to resist the urge of seeing it again, to make sure it was still there.  
SHERLOCK HOMES  
on plain, black marble. Before I could stop it my hands were at my cheeks, trying to stop the wave of tears running down my face, colliding with the heavy rain landing on my face, my clothes, the bench, making everything seem even more hopeless and depressing. My eyes were burning and stinging, I never thought one could cry as much, but I couldn't stop the tears from coming. All the sorrow and fears I had stored up inside me, broke free. I let out a howl, not sure if it was of rage, pain or just plain sadness. As I crouched there, infront of his grave, soaking wet, I couldn't move. I couldn't leave Sherlock. Not after he left me. I clung onto the thought of him coming back, just like the last time, aware that he wouldn't return, but not ready to accept it. And sitting there, watching the rain coming down to earth, I made a desicion. Jumping. Falling. Landing. Landing on the pavement. After all, rain wasn't that different from Sherlock. And with a last sad glance at my best friend's grave, I could feel the cold comfort of metal pressed against my temple, I pulled the trigger of my army gun I didn't even remember bringing.  
"He's my friend."  
Let me through. 


End file.
